


It's Supposed To Be

by NatureSerenity



Category: Original Work
Genre: Aromantic, Aromantic Character, Asexual Character, Asexuality, Asexuality Spectrum, Gen, Love, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-31
Updated: 2014-07-31
Packaged: 2018-02-11 06:05:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2056671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NatureSerenity/pseuds/NatureSerenity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>About romance, love, and life. </p>
<p>Biographical.</p>
<p>Who says romance is all that important, anyway?</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's Supposed To Be

It’s supposed to be romantic.

The flow of poetry across my lips, the caress of my tongue around the syllables of his name or hers. An endearment like a benediction, a fire that springs, awake and alive and roaring, somewhere in the pit of my stomach, or licking across my veins.

It’s supposed to be romantic.

Staying up half the night, not because I simply can’t sleep, but because the pull is so great, across miles and miles, even if the actual distance is only across town or the expanse of bed sheets. Doodling her name in the margins of my notebook with a heart looped around.

It’s supposed to be romantic.

The press of his lips against mine is supposed to  _mean_  something, like the lap of waves across the shore, or the shriek of a bird free-wheeling across the sky. “I miss you” becomes more than “I like your friendship,” the ache of something tangible uncurling in my bones.

It’s supposed to be human.

"I love you" is supposed to be like true love’s kiss, "I want you" like you’ve never desired anything more, so many things jumbled up together in a big, confusing pile of  _this is nothing like me and I don’t understand_. 

Watching from the outside, always on the outside. I love the woods around me, I love the solitude of knowing there is nothing around, not for miles. I love the whisper in the air as I turn the page of a favourite book, and the way a dog barks when they see their owner. I love the way chocolate tastes and soft, fuzzy textures beneath my fingertips.

I love the way the air smells when it rains, and I love how flowers bloom in the aftermath. I love flapping my hands and rocking back and forth on my toes, and feeling bright, green grass flatten beneath my skin. I love talking to my friends and the happy, tingling feeling when someone likes talking to me back. I love being alone, curled up in bed with a stuffed animal in the crook of my elbow, at the sweet spot.

It’s supposed to be  _human_ , and I can’t say that I’m not. “Romance” is just a word and “sex” is just a scene splashed across a screen, but love is more than stolen, sweet kisses, and love is more than what happens between the sheets. I am not broken because I don’t desire romance, and I am not a failure as a person because I don’t desire sex.

I am me. And I am okay with that.


End file.
